Too many notes (4/14/99)
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The Corruptor. [James Foley, 1999.]
Chow Yun Fat and Marky Mark play Tango and Cash in another inept attempt to transplant a Hong Kong action star into the ecology of Hollywood via the tired device of a cop-buddy movie. I might summarize the plot, which involves drugtrafficking, the Tongs, police corruption, and the white [or maybe yellow] slave trade; and which provides excuses for several impressive explosions and any number of energetic gunfights. But forget it, John. It’s only Chinatown.
Nosferatu: Phantom Der Nacht. [Werner Herzog, 1978.]
The celebrated remake of the great German expressionistic classic is now [finally] available on video, with Klaus Kinski as the angstridden bloodsucker and Isabelle Adjani as his favorite throat. I sometimes think Murnau’s original of 1922 was the only really scary movie ever made; though this is hardly such an unforgiving essay in terror, Herzog’s genius elevates it far beyond the tepid standard of mere homage.
Eight Millimeter. [Joel Schumacher, 1999.]
Schumacher, a guy who [after
The Lost Boys,
Flatliners, and the last couple of
Batman movies] is not exactly afraid of the dark, here outdoes himself in directing this elegant but unrelievedly gloomy homage to Raymond Chandler, in which private eye Nicolas Cage, from his opening audience with an invalid millionairess [in a house not quite as large as Buckingham Palace, with fewer windows than the Chrysler Building] through the interrogation of the boozy widow who takes a shine to him through the wadslimesplattered tour of the pornographic underworld of Los Angeles [far slimier now than in Philip Marlowe’s day] through the rats’ alleys of New York to the inevitable deathbattle in the rain, bids grimly eloquent farewell to yet another fallen lovely. Though in fact the plot seems only a device to excuse the look, which can only be described as Miltonic [yet from those flames/No light, but rather darkness visible/Serv’d only to discover sights of woe] — interiors apparently lit with AA cells, exteriors so heavily filtered that they all seem to have been shot in December at dusk — and which is apparently intended to illustrate the paradoxical thesis that modern color filmstock allows one to shoot something even bleaker than the traditional black and white of the classic film noir. — Indeed the screenplay has a sort of sunny side which, under the circumstances, can only be regarded as inappropriate: Cage is provided with a backstory and a domestic life which seem to have been imported from some other movie, or indeed another genre. I am reminded of Nietzsche’s derisive remark about the impossibility of imagining a married philosopher; he’d have heaped even more scorn on the idea of a married private eye. — But why quibble. At this point I’d watch Nicolas Cage in
Showgirls Two; let alone in this beautiful and terrifying tale of the transformation of a wandering knight into an avenging angel. — “I’ll never get tired of hurting you, Eddie,” he remarks matter-of-factly as he’s kicking the shit out of one of the villains. Nor will you want him to. Check this out.
Shakespeare In Love. [John Madden, 1998.]
I’ll admit it: when a movie — let alone one in which Joseph Fiennes is supposed to be writing
Romeo And Juliet for the benefit of Gwynneth Paltrow — has received several hundred awards and been nominated for all the ones remaining, I know in my heart that it has to suck. I was still wondering why this one did not when, halfway through the trailing credits, I discovered Tom Stoppard [who rewrites half the scripts in Hollywood without attribution] admitting to a share in the screenplay. — No wonder then. If anyone knows how to make a decent story out of a Shakespearean play within a play, it is he. — Still, without the borrowed Shakespearean substance this is pretty flimsy stuff:
Ed Wood without Johnny Depp, Patricia Arquette, Bill Murray, or tongue in cheek. — Good therefore but not great; which probably means it will win all the rest of the awards too.
Office Space. [1999]
Mike Judge elaborates the thesis that Work Sucks; the result is just about as deep as Jennifer Anniston.
My Sex Life. [
Comment Je Me Suis Disputé (“ma vie sexuelle”); Arnaud Desplechin, 1996.]
There’s a memorable moment in the otherwise forgettable slackers-after-college comedy
Reality Bites in which aspiring video producer Winona Ryder, distraught, sets out looking for underemployed intellectual Ethan Hawke and finds him at last sitting in a cowboy bar, reading Heidegger. I remember thinking at the time that if the cowboys had all been hanging around the bar arguing about Heidegger [rather in the spirit of that classic passage in the adventures of Zippy the Pinhead in which he went to the Kierkegaard Memorial Launderette to find the last five intellectuals in America] that that could have been a great movie. — And sure enough, here that movie is, and it’s even better than I would have thought. — Though difficult to summarize: suffice it that it does [for the most part] concern itself with the romantic misadventures of the protagonist, a Parisian philosophy professor named [in obvious imitation of Joyce] Paul Dedalus whose external circumstances have begun to mirror the labyrinthine complexity of his interior life; and that, though he and his friends talk about pussy just as much as Tarantino characters would, they don’t talk like morons. [Paul, verbatim, to one of his girlfriends: “Take those things off. You look like...an Ostrogoth.”] — The scenario is rich with literary and philosophical references: Paul’s nervous breakdown in the middle of the picture, for instance, owes more than a little to Sartre’s
Nausea. But this does nothing to detract from the wonderful originality of this picture, which by itself more than justifies the talk about a new French New Wave: three hours long, and not a moment wasted. Check it out.
Hercules Against The Moon Men. [Giacomo Gentilomo, 1964.]
My interest tweaked by a passing reference in Geoffrey O’Brien’s
The Phantom Empire [a work I recommend without reservation, incidentally], I checked this out in its latest rerelease. And, really, it isn’t bad: the brawny demigod [Alan Steel] is summoned to assist the heroic Resistance in a city ruled by a wicked queen in cahoots with alien monsters who have [literally] dropped from the Moon to lunch on the occasional human sacrifice while they perfect their schemes of universal conquest; after a variety of exploits at the expense of the bandits, mutants, soldiers, and telephone solicitors who stand in his way, Herc beards the aliens in their mistfilled lair beneath the local volcano and by dint of energetic flexing saves the girl, the city, and the planet. — No dumber than a Van Damme movie, and a lot more fun to watch.
The Astounding She-Monster. [Ronnie Ashcroft, 1957.]
Made with the connivance of the legendary Edward D. Wood Jr., this eccentric feature presents the adventures of an alien babe in a shimmering unitard who crashlands on the Earth with the apparent intent of warning us against the development of nuclear weapons; somehow this is to be accomplished by wandering into a weird little subplot involving three gangsters who have kidnapped a socialite and taken her to a cheap stageset representing a cabin in the California mountains. With many of those endearing touches one might expect from the Master himself, including lengthy passages shot wild to save the expense of synch sound, stock footage inserted at random, uncertain continuity [e.g. shot and reverse shot not agreeing on the weather], and dialogue that expands the frontiers of English syntax.
26 Bathrooms. [Peter Greenaway, 1985.]
A documentary exhibiting an English bathroom for each letter of the alphabet. S is for the Samuel Beckett memorial bathroom. As if you hadn’t guessed.
A Romance Of Happy Valley. [David Wark Griffith, 1918.]
Very like its companionpiece
True-Heart Susie, with the same stars [Lillian Gish and Bobby Herron] in the same setting [turn-of-the-century rural Kentucky] with nearly the same plot: Bobby goes to the big city to seek his fortune; Lillian waits for him faithfully back on the farm. Will he be seduced by the flappers of New York, or will he return to the idyllic countryside that begot him? — Duh. — Inexpressibly charming. When they clone Lillian, remember I wanted her first.
Kurt And Courtney. [Nick Broomfield, 1997.]
Unquestionably the worst documentary I have ever seen. Mr. Broomfield, who seems to have been dispatched to Seattle by the BBC simply because they couldn’t figure out any other way of getting rid of him, careens around the Pacific Northwest filming himself trying to puzzle out why no one will give him an interview; pausing, occasionally, to take in the wisdom proffered by a pathetic collection of junkaddled toadies, burnout remoras, and halfwitted bullshit artists. — Indeed, who killed Kurt Cobain? Zombies from Pluto, for all I care. I just hope they get Nick Broomfield next.
Blast From The Past. [Hugh Wilson, 1999.]
As the bombs are about to fall in October, 1962, mad scientist Christopher Walken and his dotty wife Sissy Spacek [everyone’s idea of the nuclear family] step into their fallout shelter; when the timelock expires after thirty-five years, their son Brendan Fraser steps out to explore the world after the holocaust. Since he steps out into the Valley, it takes him a while to figure out the holocaust never actually happened, but in the meantime he meets Alicia Silverstone, here mounting a vigorous campaign to recover her title as World’s Cutest Human. After that [as the pitchmen say] the movie practically writes itself. — Obviously Fraser is not new to the role of stranger-in-a-strange-land, but he’s very good at it: that first glimpse of the ocean is particularly memorable. And [unless they slipped in a stunt double when I wasn’t looking] he can dance like the King of Swing. Check this out.
Vampires. [John Carpenter, 1998.]
Even I can’t catch every cheap exploitation thriller that lurches across the local screens, and this was one that slipped through my net during its theatrical release. But, hey, it isn’t bad. A merry band of geeks in vans and Jeeps led by James Woods not Bill Paxton are chasing vampires not twisters through the Southwest not the Midwest under the auspices of the Catholic Church not the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration; then [oops] they all get betrayed and killed [this part is
Mission Impossible], leaving Woods and his trusty sidekick Daniel Baldwin [the fat one] to pursue the legions of Hell alone, with the unwilling assistance of neophyte vampire Sheryl Lee, who is telepathically linked to the boss bloodsucker. Against all odds they prevail. — The sexual connotations of vampirism aren’t developed at length, but the expression on Sheryl’s face when the Vampire King goes down on her is by itself worth the price of the rental: How can those terrified vague fingers push/The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? — Sheesh.
Happiness. [Todd Solondz, 1998.]
Much though I admired the great John Hughes cycle of teenage romances, they were fairy tales: in each one the dormant princess Molly Ringwald came into her kingdom after she managed to figure out just which frog she was supposed to kiss. But the only accurate portrayal of an American adolescence ever attempted was Todd Solondz’ Sundance hit of 1996,
Welcome To The Dollhouse. Predictably this was greeted with dismay and consternation by many critics, who found the portrait of Dawn [Wiener Dog] Wiener — a homely bespectacled postpreteenager trapped in suburban New Jersey whose parents really do ignore her, whose siblings really do hate her, and whose only romantic option isn’t the football hero/rockstar she desperately wants to notice her but the youthful psychpath who tries to rape her — cold, cruel, bleak, and nihilistic. With this second feature, Solondz forges onward into New Jersey adulthood, taking as his apparent point of departure the famous dictum of Tolstoy, that though every happy family is alike, every unhappy family is unhappy is its own way. Solondz suggests what Tolstoy would not have cared to admit, that happiness is a delusion, a sort of banal corollary of willful ignorance; and to the examination of the domestic arrangements of three sisters — a writer whose success has been founded on fantasies of pornographic violence, a daydreaming innocent whose every plan goes awry, and a contented hausfrau unaware of her husband’s penchant for raping small boys — he brings the satiric ferocity of Jonathan Swift and a savage unblinking honesty one might seriously compare to that of Wittgenstein or Nietzsche. — Of course this isn’t making him any friends. It is hardly an accident that many of the most interesting films of recent years — one thinks not only of Lyne’s
Lolita, but Cronenberg’s
Crash and Atom Egoyan’s
The Sweet Hereafter — for that matter one might think back to Gilliam’s
Brazil — have proven nearly impossible to distribute. — This film is brilliant, dark, funny, and appalling; something that Terry Southern would have admired, and John Waters must wish he could have made. But it’s a safe bet that you won’t see it at the multiplex. Nor will Blockbuster stock it on their shelves; lest you be tempted to buttfuck the kid behind the counter.
Rushmore. [Wes Anderson, 1999.]
A mere summary of the plot [which has something to do with the prep school career of an alter ego of the director] cannot possibly do justice to this new feature from Wes Anderson, director of the underground hit
Bottle Rocket [1996]. Suffice it that it simply isn’t like anything else: though the protagonist is an energetic and imaginative teenaged boy, he isn’t Ferris Bueller; though Bill Murray is the second lead, it isn’t a Bill Murray movie; though boy meets girl and boy loses girl, boy actually ends up giving girl away. Something about the syntactic elaboration of jokes so cryptic and complex that no one else would attempt them might remind you of Albert Brooks; but this isn’t much like Albert Brooks either. — Very original; very amusing. Check it out.
Payback. [Brian Helgeland, 1999.]
Essentially a remake of the celebrated film noir
Point Blank [John Boorman, 1967], with Mel Gibson in the Lee Marvin role as the relentless killer determined to wreak revenge upon the Syndicate [the Outfit, the Organization, whatever]. Not so Jacobean as the original; but, then, it hardly could be. — What can you say about Mel? It’s impossible to dislike him. Last year he was attractive in the role of a paranoiac stalker; this year he’s attractive in the role of a psychopathic killer. Next year he could probably be attractive in a Milosevic biopic, though I hope he doesn’t try it. — The bad guys die; the dog survives; Mel gets the money and the girl. I loved that Oriental dominatrix.
Forbidden Zone. [Richard Elfman, 1980.]
An eccentric little operetta with a goofy little libretto: a secret doorway in the basement of a slum dwelling in Venice, California, leads to the Sixth Dimension, a land of naked babes and surrealistic stagesets ruled over by King Fausto, who used to be the dwarf on
Fantasy Island. Music by Danny Elfman, who also plays the Devil. I wish I’d made this.
Gloria. [Sideny Lumet, 1999.]
When I stepped into the theater at seven o’clock on a Thursday night and found that I had it all to myself, I knew this flick was destined for an early extinction. But it might have done better. Sharon Stone after all is still Sharon Stone; and when was the last time you saw George C. Scott? still one of the greatest actors of the American cinema. Perhaps this will meet with its just reward in the video afterlife.
20000 Leagues Under The Sea. [Stuart Paton, 1916.]
Another rereleased silent classic. Weird and unintentionally funny, but my commentary would be superfluous: see S. J. Perelman,
Roll On Thou Deep and Dark Scenario, Roll.
Atomic Submarine. [Spencer Gordon Bennet, 1959.]
Intrepid sailors of the American military voyage to the far North, where undersea vessels have been disappearing beneath the Pole. There they discover a flying saucer piloted by alien monsters from the Bible Belt, who are plotting to seize control of the government and undo the outcome of the 1996 elections, get even for Iran/Contra and the Watergate scandal, reverse the cultural revolution of the Nineteen-Sixties, and then continue to rewrite history back to the English Civil War. Only true grit, nuclear torpedoes, and the repeal of the independent counsel statute can save the day. Watch for the cameo by Henry Hyde: you’ll love him in tendrils.
Later.
____________Slouching towards Ramseyville (3/15/99)
